Portents

 

We weren’t the shepherds keeping watch over our flocks by night. Neither were we the angels others heard on high. Nor were we away in the manger.

We were driving down to Banchory to the Christmas Eve service, at 4 pm.

Much speculation went on in the car about what it might mean. One person was pretty sure it signified that Caesar would die. That same person suggested we stop and read the entrails of the pheasant which that driver had hit as we headed into town. But the pheasant jumped up and ran off, just in time.

It was only as we sang about the angels singing on that Christmas eve so long ago, that we realised it could be a nudge from heaven to look up, be alert, and praise God for the gift whose birth we are celebrating tonight.

Alleluia, in excelsis deo.

Immanuel. God with us.

Merry Christmas

Longing

 

Internet is a bit dodgy at our place. The extreme cold took out the antenna a couple of weeks ago, and we are operating on a makeshift temporary set-up, awaiting the much anticipated and longed for arrival of the one who can fix it. No, not Jesus. (Although I’m sure he could…) Doug.

Actually, our longing to see our antipodean family has nothing to do with anyone’s ability to fix our internet. It’s just a bonus.

The world has been longing for the return of Jesus for millennia. Many don’t recognise who it is they are longing for, but Jesus fits perfectly into the empty space in everyone’s heart.

As I have been cleaning and preparing the rooms for our anticipated visitors, I have been marinating in the accumulation of praise CDs in the kitchen. Wallowing in worship is setting me up nicely for the celebration of the arrival of our Saviour in human form.

As we celebrate the birth of Jesus, we continue to long for the second arrival of the one who can fix his world, which we have broken. Forgive us Lord, and thank you that your promise is that you will make all things new.

Prince of Peace, be born today in the hearts of warmongers and foolish men and women everywhere.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Muddy Mess

 

A glorious day to be alive! The sun is bright and has a gentle warmth in it, though the air sits on zero. I’m having a rich time, playing through our collection of CDs to choose which ones to keep. You know: decluttering. I am listening to wonderful praise music from down the decades, so as I went for my walk on this sunny afternoon, I sang out my love for Jesus. Inspired by the songs of many believers.

Every day when I walk, I pass a field which is nothing but squelchy mud and a puddle large enough to be termed a lochan. In the corner of the mud, a sad herd of cows congregates around a hay feeder, up to their knees in mud. The farmer has explained that the only way out of the field is through the water, and cows will not readily walk through water. So, until the water is absorbed or evaporates, these poor beasts are condemned to wallow in the mud.

As I headed past the field just now, I noticed one cow lying in the mire. Her back was to me, black with mud. Then I saw another cow was patiently licking away the mud from the muddy cow’s ear. A tender touch. What does a cow feel? Those poor animals. And when they finally exit the field, it will be into a truck heading to the abattoir. It’s enough to make me give up the occasional burger or roast beef…

We are all like that mud-drenched cow, lying in the mud of the world, covered in whatever mess we have fallen into, whatever filth has splashed on us. Jesus gave up his glory in heaven to clean us up. Patiently he comes to each one of us, gently washing away all the grime and dirt, preparing us for everlasting life.

Here I am, Lord. Dirty again. Cleanse me until I am white as snow.

Preparations

 

My to-do list is long: most things reflect a season of preparation. Why do I care that the house is tidied and the spider webs removed, the dust sucked up and the tarnish polished off? Yes, there is a sense of anticipation, that when family arrive, I want them to find my house in order, exuding peace and reflecting the love and longing of my heart to welcome them all in again. I want them to sense the embrace of the family home, as well as our eager arms.

Preparation. Advent. Am I expending as much energy on preparing my whole self to welcome my Lord Jesus anew? I am trying to, though distracted by so many things. Help me, Jesus, to prepare the way for your fuller, deeper entry into every facet of my being, of my life.

Our lives on earth are a season of preparation for the greater joy of eternity. May I never lose sight of the call on us believers to be preparing the way for the Lord to enter every longing heart. So many broken, hurting hearts, ignorant of the life and love of Jesus. May my life be lived as a prayerful clearing of the boulders of prejudice and anger, affront and trauma and understandable desires for revenge. Lord Jesus, use me to help shift boulders of fear today, that the King of Glory, the Prince of Peace, might enter in.

Dance to the Beat

 

Some sort of machine chugged away in the driveway, doing something to aid the builders working out back. To adult ears, it might be a slightly annoying noise, disturbing the peace. But to young ears, open to all possibilities…

The children were heading out for school and as the youngest heard the rhythmic beat of the chugging machine, his beautiful wee face creased into a grin and he began to gyrate and bounce to the ‘music’. His older brother and sister were quick to join in, joyfully twisting and turning and jumping and laughing.

See the little children, Jesus advised. Be like them.

With the right ears, attuned and calibrated to a divine rhythm, we can joyfully dance to the beat of life, trusting that our faithful, loving Lord is in everything.

May I hear the music and rhythm of heaven today, however mundane and tedious my own tasks might be.

Joy to the world! The Lord has come!

Thank you

 

‘A thank you would have been nice.’ This was followed by some invective against the person who posted an inquiry, which was asking if anyone might have a space in a car travelling from London to Banchory on December 24^th, returning the 27^th.

The writer was me. I was making what I thought was an innocent inquiry on behalf of a friend. I was unprepared for the sarcastic attack.

Perhaps I should have said thank you. I guess I would think, more correctly, I should have said please. I certainly would have said it to anyone responding with helpful advice. Mea culpa.

More startlingly, another person jumped in with a comment that Scots were never polite, which occasioned a back-and-forth between these two individuals which was anything but polite. (I did then identify myself as American, who has always found the Scots, English and even Americans, by and large, polite).

My take-away from this exchange was just how quick people are to slam each other. Perhaps I live in a bubble of friends and acquaintances who are polite in action and attitude, even if the actual word is sometimes missed out.

May I not fall prey to stresses and pressures which drive me to explode with criticism at others. May my actions and attitudes to others today reflect the kindness and love of Christ, our Saviour, who gave up the glory he had to be born in humble circumstances and walk among us, so that we might walk with him for all eternity.  

Broken

 

I broke my toe. Months ago, but when or how it happened, I don’t know.

I thought it was the bunion flaring up. Turns out it’s possibly both causing the discomfort now. Now I am on a waiting list for feet and ankles…

Meanwhile, the toe has cobbled itself back together. It is lumpy and bumpy and occasionally sore. Until, or unless, it is put right, I imagine I will always be aware of it when I walk, or when I stand for awhile. Like in the kitchen, preparing for Christmas…

All of us have broken ‘bones’ in our lives. Broken hearts. Broken spirits. Broken dreams. We walk on, but the pain twinges, sometimes just occasionally, sometimes more often. There can be triggers which suddenly fire and fling us into a dark space.

Jesus is the healer. He is the one who can mend the broken bones, the broken memories, the broken hearts and lives. The scars remain, but he can remove the sting; he can soothe the pain.

‘Come to me,’ he invites me today. I bring to him that broken bit which is chafing right now. I surrender it to him.

Thank you, Jesus, Immanuel. Thank you for your sacrifice, so that I can be healed.